


Catch Me I’m Falling

by ChickenGoesMoo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChickenGoesMoo/pseuds/ChickenGoesMoo
Summary: Tony was born with words haphazardly scribbled in the palm of his chubby baby palm. Words written in a hurry that were strangely never scrubbed away by his other half. That could only mean that whoever placed them there either had very bad hygiene and didn’t ever wash their hands, or they were dead.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 126





	Catch Me I’m Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t know when I will update this as I have quite a bit of other stuff on my list right now, but please enjoy!

Tony’s mother was originally worried for a completely different reason when he was born with words already marking his skin in an adult’s lazy script. After all, that meant Tony’s soulmate would obviously be much older than himself if they could already write. While not all soulmates were romantic, most were. It was a very good reason for the young woman to be frightened for her innocent baby boy.

But, when days passed and the words on her son’s hands did not, she began to feel a different kind of worry grip her heart. That worry only increased as day after day she checked her child’s palm, hoping against hope that the words had been washed off. Day after day, her hopes were dashed.

Tony was born with words haphazardly scribbled in the palm of his chubby baby palm. Words written in a hurry that were strangely never scrubbed away by his other half. That could only mean that whoever placed them there either had very bad hygiene and didn’t ever wash their hands, or they were dead, and the rot eating away at their limbs as they decayed in their casket (or more likely unmarked grave considering most funeral homes scrubbed the body) hadn’t quite reached their palms.

The words written there further cemented in Tony and everyone else’s mind as he grew that it was the later, not the former, that was true. Because there, in scrawling, hastily scratched lettering sat the sad words of a dying man on his skin. A man Tony was cursed to have as his other half. His soulmate.

There sat the words- “My greatest regret will always be not being there to catch you. Because now I’m falling without you. I’m scared.”

Those words were so obvious. So final that Tony rarely ever wrote words on his skin back. When he was young he did it out of hope, to prove the others who bullied him wrong. That hope was always dashed when no new words were scribbled onto his otherwise unmarked skin. In days his frantic pleas for the other to write him back faded with the ink naturally, leaving the haunting words there, just as unnaturally strong as before.

When he grew older, he only wrote back to his no doubt dead soulmate when he was drunk, which happened often at college, and even more often after disappointing his father. Making bad, rash decisions was easier with those words on his skin. A promise that, no matter what, his soulmate would never be there to catch him. And they never were.

When his father died, Tony was roused from his blackout, drunken bender by Rhodey. For a moment, Tony didn’t understand the pitying sorrow etched on his friend’s face till he had a chance to clean up in the shower. One glance in the mirror told Tony all he needed to know.

Somewhere, deep underground, buried in a cemetery, possibly next to loved ones and family, was a rotted corpse with hateful messages carved into their skin with every color of ink available. Crude words asking someone who didn’t have the voice to answer back if they had committed suicide, and a long, scrawling message written in a drunken, misspelled rage about how he hoped they suffered. How he hoped they had cancer, and died a painful death, without a single friend to be there and help them. Among the hateful rants and profane words, were pictures. Some were immaturely drawn penises, others were stick figures dying in extremely horrific ways. Then, further down his body, close to his ankle, as Tony hand finally began to run out of room, were the final pleas just before he passed out. Words begging them to write back. Words wishing them back to life. Words pleading for someone to catch him before he fell so far he wouldn’t be able to be saved.

Those were the words Tony scrubbed away first. He started at the ankles, and worked his way up to his face, finishing by scrubbing away a crudely drawn gun from his temple till his skin was raw. Then, he turned to his palm. Those condemning words that promised him he would be alone for the rest of his life.

Rhodey walked in to check on him just before he could take a razor to his palm and slice the flesh off once and for all. Realistically, he knew the words would grow back when the scabbing turned to scarring, but another part of his mind supplied that he wouldn’t have to look at them ever again if he just cut his hand off.

Of course, Rhodey was there to talk him out of self mutilation. Even if no one else was, Rhodey was there to catch him when he fell, and lift him back up.

Once Tony was back on his feet, he started delving into his father’s old Stark-tech designs. It wasn’t to make amends with the man he now knew would never be able to be proud of him ever again. It wasn’t for money, lord knew he had enough of that. He would never admit to the fact that, deep down, he began making better weapons than even his father could have ever dreamed of for revenge. There were murderers and war lords who had messages on their skin, and it just wasn’t fair.

The pain he felt every day looking at his hand and knowing no other words would ever trace his skin? Others needed to know that pain. Why was he cursed to be born with words on his wrist that would never go away no matter how much he scrubbed, condemning him to an incomplete life when horrible people were out there. People who killed. People who didn’t deserve that connection and hope.

He hurt in a way he would never willing let other people know. In a way that no one would ever understand unless he made them. If fate robbed him of his happiness, then he would rob others of theirs. He hated himself almost as much as he hated those words on his palm. Hated every happy couple on the sidewalk, or the people in board meetings looking down at their wrists instead of their watches for words of good luck, or reminders about dinner.

That hurt festered over the years. When he became old enough to take over his father’s company, he did it without flinching. He jumped into it with both feet, even when his new secretary tried to drag him out of his basement and away from his bots. She was strong, determined, and a force to be reckoned with. She was the kind of person he wished he could share his soul-bond with. The kind of person he could see himself falling in love with, despite the fact he occasionally saw words written on her freckled skin. Words she ignored with an unimpressed scowl most days.

Still, while she disagreed with most of the crap he did, she caught him more times than he could count when he spiraled out of control.

But no one was there in Afghanistan. No one was there to catch him when he met a sweet little man in the cave he was being held captive. No one saw the way he traced words on his forearm that simply said, “hurry home.” At least, that was what the man told him they said. The words were written in the man’s own language, so he had no clue if that was actually true.

No one was there when Tony was tortured into agreeing to make a weapon. No one was there as Tony tore apart the whole camp, destroying a childish legacy.

No one caught him as he held the man to his chest while being told that his wife was dead. Killed by Tony’s own weapons. Those words had been her last to write him, and he was finally ‘going home to see her’ again, before breathing his last shaky breath in Tony’s arms.

Tony had done that.

Tony had inflicted that hurt that he felt every day on an innocent man.

So, Tony fell again. But this time, he didn’t look for someone else to pick him back up. Even if his soulmate had been alive out there, would they even want to look at him now that he knew what a legacy he had created? The pain he had caused?

And so, he created the suit. He became Iron Man. He killed Stane, knowing the man had a soulmate somewhere, and aching for them as he tried to reason with him. Told him to stop fighting. Told him to give it up.

But, at the end of the night there was a man or woman out there anyway who lost their soulmate, who he hoped would be equally disturbed with the crimes their soulmate had committed. A person who Stane should have loved and cherished, obviously put beneath his ambitions.

Maybe fate was right to match him with a dead soulmate. Would he have been like Obadiah, and ignored his match? Would he have been like his father and taken them for granted?

Maybe he deserved one even less than everyone else out there. Maybe they were lucky to have died before him. He liked to think that whoever they were, they were truly sad that they would be unable to catch him from falling this far from what was right. They were definitely right to be scared. How did they know what he was to become, though?

It didn’t matter. He really was a monster. 


End file.
